Ghosts Aren't Real
by Deana
Summary: Aramis spends a night in the woods disoriented and alone, not remembering how he got there or why. While there, someone unexpectedly haunts him. (My entry in the Fete des Mousquetaires contest for October.)


**Ghosts Aren't Real**  
A Musketeers story by Deana

My entry in the October Fete des Mousquetaires contest! Thank you Snowglory for the title!

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Aramis hurried through the woods, alone, wounded, and bleeding. His captors hadn't expected him to escape but he had, and he appeared to have lost them...but if only he could remember how he'd ended up in this situation!

His left arm was bleeding and he had his right hand clamped over it. He paused to lean against a tree, not even sure where he was going.

A chilly wind blew his hair into his eyes and he let go of his bleeding arm to push it out of his face, leaving a streak of blood on his forehead. He wondered where his hat was, but a sudden sound had him stumbling away from the tree, clutching his arm again in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

The sun had been rising when he'd fled his captors, but he realized with a jolt that it was actually setting. Had he been their prisoner all day? The last thing he recalled was leaving the tavern the night before. He hadn't been drunk, but he remembered nothing more.

With shock, Aramis realized that he didn't remember escaping. What had they done to him? Perhaps he had been running away all day?

Aramis stopped again, trying to catch his breath. He looked at his arm to see what the wound was, and was surprised to find a bullet hole. It was still bleeding, seeming to indicate that he hadn't escaped that morning. What surprised him more was the sight of a bruise surrounding the hole, as if someone had cruelly punched the wound. How could he not remember something like that?

The pain suddenly intensified, as if seeing the injury made it more realistic.

Aramis winced, clenching his eyes shut and bending over his arm, holding it tightly against his stomach. He gasped desperately, realizing that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't catch his breath. He started seeing spots before his eyes and his legs shook, dropping him to his knees on the ground.

His breathing suddenly grew even more difficult, and he let go of his arm and threw out his hand to brace himself. A thrill of fear shot through Aramis when he wondered if he was about to die there, alone in the dark without his friends. Part of him was glad that they wouldn't have to watch him die, but the other part of him wanted to say goodbye.

His vision spun even with his eyes closed, and Aramis laid down on his side, his chest heaving for breath.

Aramis' mind was very confused, and he couldn't understand why he couldn't breathe. His ribs felt bruised but not broken, and there was no blood in his mouth or throat. His head was throbbing and his stomach felt queasy, suggesting a concussion, but he couldn't bring himself to move enough to feel for a bump.

Aramis placed his right hand on his chest, trying to calm himself down just as he would if one of his friends were having trouble breathing. It wasn't working though; even though he was fighting to remain calm, his lungs were still struggling for air.

With surprise, Aramis realized that it felt just like the problem that he'd had as a child.

Aramis' eyes popped open and he looked around from where he lay, trying to spot the herb that the village doctor had made him drink every morning and night...the same herb that he always carried in his saddlebags just in case. He didn't see any, and he dragged himself up to sit against a tree, head spinning and his right hand still on his chest as his other arm continued to bleed.

Thinking back, Aramis remembered how he used to calm his lungs when he had a sudden attack and no herbs were nearby. He remembered the doctor teaching him when he was a child of eight to inhale as slowly as he could and let it out evenly, refusing to let his lungs work spastically. He did that now, wincing at the wheeze that he heard. It wasn't easy and made him cough, but he tried it again and again, until his breathing grew more controlled.

Pain laced through his arm and head, making Aramis wince again. He was still dizzy, and opened his eyes to blink in the dark. Unexpectedly, a form appeared before him and gave him a smile.

Aramis blinked with shock. "Marsac?" he whispered.

His old friend stood about twenty feet ahead of him, and Aramis closed his eyes for a second before reopening them.

Marsac was gone.

Aramis nearly lost control of his lungs again as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. How had he seen Marsac, of all people? Ghosts weren't real; it had to be an effect of the concussion.

Aramis reached up to feel his head and was shocked to find no bump, sore spot, or blood. If he hadn't been hit on the head, then what was wrong with him?

Aramis closed his eyes and tried to focus on his body. He hadn't become the musketeers' unofficial medic by learning nothing.

His arm.

Making a sound of shock, he opened his eyes and grasped his arm when he remembered that it was still bleeding, but he gasped when he found Marsac crouched only a foot away, watching him.

Aramis scrambled to his feet, but had to grab onto the tree when his vision swirled. He frantically looked around, but Marsac was gone.

Aramis' heart was pounding against his ribs, and his head throbbed right along with it. His legs were shaking and he barely had the strength to hold onto the tree. _What is wrong with m_ e? he asked himself.

An owl suddenly hooted, and Aramis realized that he'd stopped for too long. Grasping his arm again, he stumbled away from the tree and continued on, realizing that he had no idea where he was going.

The sky grew darker and darker as he walked, but a full moon rose, lighting his way. The night grew colder, and Aramis could almost see his breath in the air.

Not long after, Aramis felt his lungs growing tight again. He stopped and leaned against a tree to catch his breath but it didn't work. He realized that he was about to have another attack, and he frowned, not understanding why his childhood malady would suddenly return now, of all times.

Aramis' head spun and he found himself sliding down the tree, sitting in the grass as he fought for air. It took a few minutes to get his breathing under control, and he winced when pain laced through his lungs. "Why, Marsac?" he found himself saying. "Why this...now?" Opening his eyes, he found his old friend sitting cross-legged to his right, facing him.

Marsac said nothing, he just smiled.

Aramis removed his right hand from his chest and reached out to touch him, but his hand met empty air.

Marsac was gone.

Aramis let his arm drop, and he closed his eyes as he tried to compose himself. He sat there for a long time, nearly dozing off but waking when the pain of his bullet wound suddenly increased.

Aramis reopened his eyes and painfully pulled his left arm closer. He found that the bleeding had mostly stopped, and there was no exit wound. A groan escaped him when he realized that he would need surgery to remove it, and he wondered once more what had happened to him.

Aramis dozed off again, until another sound reached his ears. Opening his eyes, he spotted a deer and watched as it walked in front of him. "I wish you could find my friends," he said to it.

The deer looked at him for a few seconds before darting away.

"Beautiful creature, isn't she, Marsac?" Aramis said.

Marsac stood looking at him, but vanished again with no answer.

A shiver passed through Aramis' body, and he closed his eyes once more, not having the strength to continue. He had no idea where he was, he didn't know what had happened, and he knew that his assailants could find him any minute. Was it time to give up and accept his fate?

 _"You don't get to give up, Aramis, you hear me?!"_

Aramis opened his eyes. "Porthos?" he exclaimed.

All he saw was darkness and trees.

"Porthos!" he shouted, pushing himself to his feet. He stumbled on, before realizing that his friend had said that to him a week after the Savoy massacre. His friends hadn't found him; he was still alone.

With a groan, Aramis stopped and leaned against a tree, closing his eyes. He didn't _want_ to give up; he just didn't know how to get home. "Keep going," he told himself. "They'll find me." Reopening his eyes, he started to walk again, cradling his left arm which was pulsing with pain.

As he walked, Aramis realized that the sun was rising. How had he not noticed? Had he really been trying to get home all night? The forest ahead was thinning out, and Aramis realized that he could hear horses.

Ahead of him was a troupe of riders, splitting up in different directions. Aramis just stared, his confused mind not even sure if what he was seeing was real. "Do you see that, Marsac?" he asked.

The silent form of his old friend stood beside him, saying nothing.

Aramis looked at him, and watched as he vanished. Some of Aramis' strength seemed to go with him, and he leaned back against a tree and slid down it, not noticing as one of the remaining men spotted him and pointed him out to the other.

Hoofbeats filled the air and Aramis closed his eyes. He didn't realize that anyone was there until a hand was tapping his face.

"Stop it, Marsac," Aramis mumbled.

"Marsac? What? It's Porthos!"

Aramis' eyes snapped open.

The two faces before him smiled with relief.

"Where else are you hurt?" Athos asked.

Aramis realized that his friend was examining the gunshot wound in his arm. "I don't know," he said.

Porthos frowned and peered into Aramis' eyes. "Right, _that_ isn't normal!"

Athos looked at him, and Aramis had no idea what they were seeing.

"What did they do to you?" Athos asked.

"I have no idea," Aramis told them. Suddenly his eyes opened wider. "You found me!"

Everyone frowned.

"Concussion," Athos commented.

"No," Aramis told them. "My head is fine."

"Then why are your eyes so huge?" Porthos asked.

Aramis said nothing, blinking. "Huge?"

"The pupils," he said. "But one isn't bigger than the other, they're _both_ too big."

Aramis groaned and closed his eyes, understanding now. "I've been drugged."

"With what?"

"I don't know," Aramis told them. He suddenly gasped when the pain flared in his arm.

"The bullet needs to come out," said Athos.

Porthos stood and grabbed something off his horse; Aramis' medical pack.

Aramis submitted when Athos placed a rolled-up cloth between his teeth. He closed his eyes when Porthos wrapped an arm around his back and held onto him tightly.

A moment later, blinding pain filled his arm. Aramis bit the cloth hard, a cry of pain escaping and being muffled by the cloth.

Porthos tightened his grip, turning his friend's face against his shoulder as if trying to comfort a child.

Athos dug around for the bullet, finding it easily and forcing it up and out of Aramis' arm.

"Marsac!" Aramis exclaimed, the cloth falling out of his mouth.

Athos paused in threading a needle just long enough to look at Porthos, in shock to hear the unexpected name.

"Marsac isn't here, Aramis," Porthos told him.

"Yes...he is," Aramis said, between panting breaths.

Porthos looked around, not realizing that Aramis could see his old friend standing five feet away. "Calm your breathin'," he said. "It'll be over in a minute."

Athos sewed the wound as quickly as he could, trying to make the stitches neat. Every harsh breath from Aramis seemed to cut into his heart, as he knew that he was increasing his friend's pain.

Porthos saw that Aramis' breathing was growing worse, not better. "Hey, calm down."

Aramis shook his head, realizing that he was having another attack.

The other two heard a sudden wheeze, and Porthos pulled Aramis away from his shoulder to look into his face. "Whoa, whoa, what's goin' on?"

Aramis shook his head again, placing his right hand on his chest as he tried to slow his breathing.

"Is there lemongrass around here?!" Porthos exclaimed, quickly looking around.

"No," Aramis managed to squeak.

Athos was almost finished, so he placed the last stitches and started rummaging through Aramis' pack to find the herb that Aramis usually drank when his lungs bothered him. Finding it, he stood to grab the canteen off his horse before dropping the herbs inside it and kneeling beside his friends.

The canteen was a welcome sight, and Aramis drank from it deeply, in between breaths.

Both of his friends anxiously watched.

"You don't seem surprised about what just happened to you," Porthos commented, after Aramis had regained his breath.

Aramis closed his eyes, still breathing fast. "Third time," he whispered.

Both men were shocked. "Third time?" Athos echoed.

"The third time since you disappeared?" Porthos asked.

Aramis nodded. "Ask Marsac. He saw."

Porthos couldn't stop himself from looking around. "Aramis-"

Athos put out a hand and shook his head. There was no sense in arguing with someone who was drugged. "Come," he said, taking hold of Aramis' shoulder. "We must get you back to the garrison."

Porthos grabbed Aramis on the other side, and they carefully started to pull him upright.

"No!" Aramis exclaimed, reopening his eyes.

The others halted. "Are you hurt somewhere else?!" Porthos asked, glancing down Aramis' body.

Aramis felt dizzy, and closed his eyes again. "No. Yes. He hurt me."

"Who did?" Athos asked.

"And where?" asked a frantic Porthos.

Aramis didn't reopen his eyes. "Marsac hurt me. _Then_."

Athos and Porthos glanced at each other, well-versed in the emotional harm that Marsac had done by leaving Aramis behind wounded and alone in Savoy.

"But he's back," Aramis continued. "I can't leave _him_ here."

Porthos closed his own eyes with a deep sigh.

"And _that_ is the difference between the two of you," Athos said, softly.

Everyone was silent for a moment.

"Wait?" Aramis requested. "Just...wait." His eyes were still closed and he sounded as if he were falling asleep.

Athos took hold of Aramis' wrist and found his heart beating too fast in response to the blood loss. It seemed stronger than he expected, and he wondered if it was an effect of the drug.

Porthos stood and fetched Aramis' cloak that he'd brought along, and he gently covered their wounded friend with it.

Aramis moved his head slightly, making a soft sound but not reopening his eyes.

Porthos looked at Athos. "What now?" he whispered.

"We'll leave after he finishes passing out," Athos answered. The line would've been comical under different circumstances.

They waited a few more minutes before Porthos carefully lifted Aramis from the ground and got him onto his horse. He swung up behind him and they were on their way.

The next time Aramis woke, he was home.

"Aramis," said a voice. "Thank God."

The blurred figure sitting beside the bed slowly morphed into the shape of Captain Treville, who smiled at the look of recognition from his wounded musketeer.

"What happened?" Aramis asked.

"You mean you don't know?" Porthos asked.

Aramis turned his head to see his two friends sitting in chairs on the other side of the bed. The motion brought to life a piercing pain in his brain, and he winced. "Ooooh," he groaned, reaching his right hand to cover his eyes.

"Take it easy," said Treville. "You're covered with bruises along with the gunshot wound in your arm."

Aramis found that he was holding his breath and he tried to let it out, wincing as his head and arm warred with each other to be the main offender.

The others were quiet as he tried to gain control, and were relieved when he finally moved his hand away from his eyes.

"You remember nothing?" Athos asked.

Aramis sighed. "Nothing. I don't even know what time of day it is."

"Early afternoon. On _Sunday_ ," said Porthos.

It took a moment for Aramis to understand. "Sunday?"

The others nodded.

"The last time anyone saw you was on Friday night," Treville told him.

"What?!" Aramis exclaimed, sitting up. The automatic action was foolish, as his head spun and the pain increased in his arm, making him gasp. "Marsac!" he exclaimed.

The others reached for him, with all three men surprised at his exclamation.

Aramis found himself leaning against Treville. "Marsac?" he repeated, sounding like a question that time. "Marsac was there," he realized.

"He can't have been," said Athos.

"But he _was_ ," said Aramis. "Several times."

"What did he say?" Porthos asked.

Aramis hesitated. "Nothing."

"If he was there, then where is he now?" Treville asked. "Why didn't he try to help you?" He inwardly cringed at the last question, considering the last time Aramis had seen Marsac was in Savoy three years ago.

Aramis' eyes were opened wide as he seemed to look at nothing. "He wasn't real," he finally said.

"That makes more sense," said Porthos. "Even though it makes _no_ sense."

"Why was I seeing Marsac?" Aramis asked.

"You appeared drugged," Athos told him. "You even deduced that yourself when we told you that the pupils of your eyes were too large."

"So I was seeing Marsac in a drugged haze," Aramis said. He closed his eyes and sighed; memories of Savoy and Marsac opening up the painful wound in his soul. "Why him?" he whispered.

Everyone looked at each other before Porthos answered. "Maybe because of where you were."

 _A forest in the dark,_ Aramis realized. It wasn't winter, but the autumn air was very chilly. He sighed again and felt Treville tighten his hold. He coughed a little when his chest suddenly felt tight, and a cup of hot tea appeared in front of his face. He drank it gratefully, but it took him a few seconds to realize what it was and he shot Porthos a confused look.

"You don't remember that either?" Porthos asked.

"Remember what?" Aramis asked, even as the memory suddenly came back.

"You suffered an attack of being unable to breathe in front of us," Athos reminded him. "And then you told us that it was the third time."

"The doctor who examined you said that it was likely something in whatever your attackers drugged you with," said Treville. "A substance that didn't agree with your lungs."

Aramis thought for a minute. "That makes sense. When I was a child, there were many incidents when we couldn't figure out what had caused it."

"Well you better keep this stuff around for a while," said Porthos, gesturing with the cup.

Aramis nodded. "I will." He shifted to lie down and Treville helped him, resting him back against the pillows.

Everyone started at Aramis afterwards, wondering what he was thinking.

"We're listening, if you'd like to talk about it," said Treville.

Aramis sighed—carefully. "I don't believe in ghosts, you all know that. Marsac was a figment of my imagination."

Everyone nodded their agreement.

"He was alive last I saw him," Aramis continued. "And ghosts aren't real."

"You have no need to convince us," said Athos. "We agree."

Aramis was relieved. His eyes tiredly closed without his permission but he forced himself to reopen them again.

"Sleep," said Porthos

Aramis shook his head. "I don't know who abducted me or why. I seem to recall being made to drink something, more than once. I don't recall being shot or escaping."

The other three looked at each other.

"Just rest for now," said Treville. "Perhaps when you wake, you'll remember something."

Aramis nodded and closed his eyes again. Just before he fell asleep, he felt Marsac's presence beside him again, but when he opened his eyes, he wasn't there.

"What it is?" Athos asked.

"Nothing," Aramis said. He was asleep a moment later, and the drug-induced image of Marsac never appeared again.

THE END


End file.
